Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

Uh-huh, right. She knew she was going to give him what he wanted whether she liked it or not--which was how, in spite of the way he phrased it, a mugging worked.

Rough hands rummaged around and her purse was ripped off her shoulder. She thought about yelling, but the weight bearing down on her rib cage made anything more than shallow breaths impossible, and besides, she had parked way around the side in the shadows. Who was going to hear her?

As her wide eyes tracked the departing cars and trucks that were so close and yet so far away, she had an absolutely absurd memory of the opening scene from Jaws--where the woman was being dragged under by the shark and saw the glowing lights of houses on the shore.

"I'm not gonna hurt you. . . . I just need money."

With his body still forcing her against the car, he dumped the contents of her bag on the muddy ground, her cell phone, wallet, keys, everything pouring free. And then he tossed her sixteen-thousand-dollar Birkin bag over the hood of the Audi.

Stupid bastard. He could have gotten more for that on eBay than any cash he'd find in her wallet.

Half of her mind was in a panic, the other part icy calm, and she went with the latter, because she was nothing if not her father's daughter: This freaked- out addict was going to spin her around at some point because he was going to want her jewelry, and when he did, she had a good chance of kneeing him where it counted.

Even if she had to pretend she wasn't about to throw up all over her shoes--

The weight crushing against her wasn't so much removed as it was vaporized, gone as if it had never been: One second she couldn't breathe. The next, she had all the oxygen in the world.

As she dragged in a tremendous gulp of air and held on to the car roof to keep standing, grunts sounded next to her.

Pushing herself around, she had to blink a couple of times to understand what she was looking at--but no amount of wait-maybe-I'm-not-seeing-this- right changed what was going on: Isaac had come out of nowhere, pinned her assailant to the ground, and was giving the guy a root canal the hard way.

Namely with his fist.

"Isaac--" Her voice cracked and she coughed. "Isaac! Stop it!"

Louie the PI's voice echoed through her head: That SOB could be a murderer.

"Isaac!"

She was expecting to have to jump on him or call for help to get him to stop the beating, but as soon as it started, it was over. Isaac quit the Rocky routine on his own, flipping the man onto his stomach and wrenching his arms back to immobilize him.

Nothing was broken this time.

And Isaac wasn't even breathing hard as he glanced over at her. "Are you okay?"

His eyes were sharp, his expression deadly and calm, his voice even and polite. It was obvious that he was in total control of himself and the situation . . . and it dawned on her that he might possibly have saved her from something awful. With addicts, you never knew what they were going to do.

"Did he hurt you?" Isaac said. "Are you okay?"

"No," she answered roughly, not sure which question she was answering.

With sheer, brute strength, Isaac picked the man up and gave him a shove and there was no argument, not even a comment. Her attacker scrambled away like he was damned well aware he'd narrowly missed the beat-down of his life.

And then Isaac picked up her things. One by one, he gathered what had been in her purse, wiping off the mud on his own sweatshirt, lining everything up on the hood of her car.

Falling back against the driver's-side door, she was captivated by how very careful he was, his bloody hands gentle.

Daniel appeared right beside him, seemingly struck by how he treated what was hers. Let him take you home, Grier. You're in no condition to drive.

"He hasn't asked me," she mumbled.

"Asked you what?" Isaac said, glancing over.

When she waved the words away, he went and got her bag, putting everything into it before holding the thing out to her. "I'd like to drive you home. If you'll let me."

Bingo, her brother said.

She opened her mouth to shut up Daniel, but just didn't have the energy to follow through with it.

"Ms. Childe?" With her client's Southern accent, that came out as one word, MzChiiiiilde.

God, what to do. And of course, Hell, no, was the healthiest response--in spite of Daniel's opinion.

Trust me, Daniel said.

Isaac's voice dropped. "Just let me get you home safe. Please."

For some unknowable reason, her instincts were telling her to trust this stranger with a bad past and a criminal present who was on the run. Or was it just a case of her savior complex overriding better judgment?

Or . . . was it the look on a ghost's face? Like Daniel was seeing something she couldn't in this collision between her and a dangerous stranger with a soft Southern drawl.

"I don't need a driver. That I can do myself." She took her bag from him. "But I do need you to stick around and face your charges."

Isaac scanned the area. "How about we talk at your house."

"I carry Mace, you know."

"I'm glad."

"And a stun gun." For all the good it had done her just now.

Good Lord, she couldn't believe she was even thinking about going home with Isaac. The meth head had been a twitchy amateur . . . and her client sure as hell seemed like a professional.

His pale gray eyes bored into hers. "I'm not going to hurt you. I swear it."

With a curse, she wrenched open the car door. "I'm driving."

The question was, Where the hell was she going? And with whom?

Jim watched the Audi drive off, its milky exhaust rising up behind both cold tailpipes. He was utterly unconcerned about where the pair went--he'd slipped transmitters into both Isaac's sweatshirt and the bag with the money.

"You could have just let me do a locator spell," Eddie muttered.

"I'm used to working with the GPS shit from my old job." And who could have guessed he'd ever suffer from technology nostalgia?

Speaking of intel--it was time for some clarity in that department: Although he could see how and why Isaac might be up next on the list of seven souls, a little face-to-face time with his English dandy of a boss was the only way to be certain.

Lot of pressure off him if it turned out saving Isaac's ass had a larger purpose.

He swiveled his head toward Eddie. "Tell me how to get over to the Four Lads. Do I have to die again?"

If he did, he had a Beretta on him and he already knew what kicking the bucket from a gunshot was like. Snore.

"Don't bother." Adrian cracked his knuckles. "They're not going to tell you anything. They can't."

What the f**k? "I thought I worked for them."

"You work for both sides, and they've given you all the help they can."

Jim looked back and forth between the two angels: Each of them had the tight expression of a guy with a shoestring noosing up his balls.

"Help?" he said. "Where's my goddamned help?"

"They gave you us, ass**le," Adrian snapped. "And that's all they can do--I've already gone over and asked them who's supposed to be next. I figured it would help you, you ungrateful bastard."

Jim popped his brows at the Mr. Thoughtful routine. First time through the park with Adrian, the guy had silver-plated Jim to the enemy--to the point where he'd ended up f**king Devina in the parking lot of a club. In his truck. Without knowing she was a demon.

"Times have changed since then," Ad said gruffly. "You know they have."

In a flash, Jim remembered what the guy had looked like just a day or so ago after Devina had finished using and abusing him in a variety of ways. He'd given himself over to her so that Jim had had half a chance at winning the first round.

"Yeah, they have." Jim offered his knuckles in guy-speak for, Sorry I insinuated you're dog shit.

As Ad gave them a pound, Eddie said, "We're technically against the rules."

Jim shrugged. "If it'll help me win, I'll take it. Rules are relative."

Which was why he'd been chosen, wasn't it. He was hardly a frickin' Boy Scout--

Jim's head snapped around at a metal-on-metal squeaking sound. The portable octagon had been dismantled and was being shoved through the door by four guys who then carried it over to a U-Haul van. Next trip in and out they were carrying the eight concrete corner weights and poles and then no one was left but him and Eddie and Adrian.

Which was a metaphor for the sitch he was in, wasn't it.

Fine. This was how the game was played? Cool. He was used to relying on himself and his instincts in the field . . . and everything was pulling him toward Isaac.